


Bourbon and Grace

by violue



Series: For the Love of Barachiel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Dean Winchester, Frottage, Grace-Powered Orgasms, Hunter Castiel, M/M, Mild Wing Kink, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should be just another night of Dean sucking down bourbon, staring at the wall, and contemplating his immortality, but a man on a Harley is about to shake everything up. </p><p>Based on the art <a href="http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com/post/141959521925/destiel-reverse-bang-art-2-fic-info-coming">"I Know What An Angel Like You Is Doing In a Place Like This"</a> by <a href="http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com/">PowerBottomSammyWinchester</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bourbon and Grace

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE, I have another reverse bang! The challenge needed pinch hitters, and when I saw that one of the other pieces I'd wanted to claim was up for grabs, I was pretty excited. 
> 
> Thanks of course [Isis_McGee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis_McGee)/[PowerBottomSammyWinchester](http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com) for your inspiring art, and thank you to my betas [Kris](http://kelisab.tumblr.com/) and [Dani](http://warkitt3nz.tumblr.com/). With you, I'm UNSTOPPABLE(ok not really).

 

 

 

Dean hears him before he sees him. The rumble of a motorcycle comes rolling down the road, the distinctive engine purr that can only belong to a Harley; a pretty recent model Sportster, even. Dean’s always liked the sound of a good bike idling nearby, that thick, clunky mixture of exhaust and metal and everything else combining together to form a soothing noise.

Unless it’s some asshole with aftermarket pipes gunning their bike while Dean’s trying to fucking relax and watch some cartoons, then he’s not a fan.

The bike stops outside, and Dean resists the urge to turn and look when he hears the door to the bar opening. He’s always felt like an asshole when he does that; turning to stare just like everyone else in the room to see the source of the noise. Instead, Dean takes a pull from his fourth serving of Wild Turkey and stares ahead at the array of bottles behind the bar. He can feel the man approaching, then sitting down beside him. Dean surreptitiously glances around; the bar isn’t all that full, and yet this guy is sitting in the stool directly to Dean’s right. That means Dean’s about to get really lucky, or really unlucky. He figures it’s the latter; this guy is human, but something unnatural is clinging to him. Not a great sign. Not a demon, but not promising.

“A bit dressed up for a place like this, aren’t you?” the man says, and damn. _Damn._ His voice is perfect; deep, gritty, and road-worn, just like the Harley he rode in on.

Dean wouldn’t say he’s dressed up, though maybe that’s because he’s been wearing this outfit for what feels like eons. It’s nothing special; deep blue suit jacket and trousers, white dress shirt, slick black shoes. He wears the outfit because that’s what the guy he stole his entire look from was wearing. Dean Smith, that’s the guy’s name. Dean Smith is still working his soul-sucking corporate job at Sandover in Ohio with no idea that there’s another guy walking around looking just like he did a good thirty years ago. Dean picked him because sometimes it’s easier to get by when you look like you fell out of a cologne ad in GQ. He kept the name because it was far better than the one he used to have.

“This is just how I dress,” Dean mutters, wary. He downs the rest of the drink and turns his head enough to get a look at the newcomer. He’s attractive; mid-to-late thirties, blue eyes Dean could get lost in, and dark brown hair that’s been flattened a bit by a helmet that’s nowhere to be seen, which means it’s sitting outside on the bike waiting to get stolen. Dean feels a slight urge to reach out and fluff that hair, get it looking a little wild. The man has on a black leather jacket that Dean really likes, and a fairly neutral expression that Dean can’t quite read.

“It’s a good look for you,” the man says. Wow. Is Dean really being picked up by a _guy_ in a dive bar in damn Nebraska? That’s a first.

“Thanks. That’s not a bad… situation you have going on yourself,” Dean says, gesturing vaguely at the man, who smiles.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Dean shrugs. “Having an off night.”

The bartender, Pamela, swoops by and refills Dean’s glass without prompting, leaving the bottle within reach for him. He salutes her retreating form with his glass before taking a drink.

“What’s your name?” Mr. Leather Jacket asks after a brief moment of quiet.

“Dean.”

“No last name?”

“No, no last name,” Dean says. He could say Smith, since that was the other guy’s name, but even though Smith is the most common last name in the US, when he uses it, people assume he’s lying.

“I’m Castiel,” the man says.

Castiel. It sounds angelic, but this guy’s not an angel. “What can I do for you, Cas?”

“Just looking for a little... conversation.”

“About what?”

“Anything, really.”

Pamela comes by, looking to take Castiel’s order.

“Rum and Coke,” Castiel says.

Dean rolls his eyes. Drunk drivers play Charon to so many innocent souls, escorting them to the other side before their natural time. “Aren’t you driving?”

Castiel frowns. “I can handle one drink.”

“I bet.” Dean drove here too, he’ll probably sleep all the bourbon off in the back of his Impala. If he really wanted he could clear the haze of alcohol with a thought, but fuck it, he’s got nowhere to be.

“I’ve had a rough day,” Castiel insists, like he wants Dean’s fucking permission.

“Drink all you want, man, prettier faces than yours been scraped off the pavement after a bad call in a bar.”

Castiel glares, and when Pamela hands him his drink, he drinks it in one gulp. “Another.”

Pamela just shrugs and moves on.

“I’ll just have to grab some shut eye nearby,” Castiel says.

“Guess so.”

“I don’t suppose you know of a place nearby?” Oh, that’s _real_ subtle.

“You cut to the chase real quick, Cas.”

“As I mentioned, I have had a rough day.”

“Yeah, well, sorry,” Dean says as Pamela drops off another drink for Castiel. “Not really in the mood tonight.” And isn’t that just sad. Doesn’t seem like it was too long ago when Dean enjoyed the pleasures of flesh, savored the flavors of liquor and skin. Dean loved a good bar hookup. But, that was a different time, back when Dean didn’t drive, didn’t sleep.

Dean sighs. He’s old, so very old, and so very tired. “What do you _really_ want, Castiel?”

Castiel sets a small metal canister on the bar. It’s so heavily warded Dean can barely look at it directly, let alone touch it. The human of course, has no problem touching it.

“You and I have a friend in common,” Castiel says.

“Oh we do, do we? And who’s that?”

“Crowley.”

Dean growls, and if Castiel is surprised by the short, gleaming sword suddenly in Dean’s hand, he doesn’t show it. “Sounds like you’ve got some information mixed up, kid. Crowley and I, we ain’t friends,” he says, slamming the blade down flat on the counter. Pamela looks over from the other end of the bar, but doesn’t say anything about Dean having a weapon. She’ll put up with a lot from Dean, short of him actually shanking one of her customers.

“Crowley’s dead,” Castiel says blandly, “and this… this brought me to you,” he adds, tapping the canister.

Crowley’s dead? Crowley’s dead, and it wasn’t by Dean’s hand. He doesn’t know whether to feel excited or cheated by the news. “That so? And how did you manage that?”

The man slaps his own knife down on the counter. It’s old, real fucking old, but the blade still shines like it was hammered out this morning. There’s Kurdish writing down the side, but even translated it reads like gibberish; must be code. Dean doesn’t have to know what it says to know what it’s capable of, though.

“Thought the demons had all the weapons like that squared away from prying human hands,” Dean says.

“Well, they obviously missed one.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I inherited it.”

“Ah, so you’re one of those legacy hunters, yeah? Born into the life and never had a way out? Just been filling shotgun shells and hunting creepy-crawlies your whole life?” Dean tips more bourbon into his glass. When he glances over at Castiel, the man is glaring slightly. “Better yet, maybe you’re a Man of Letters. They’d have a knife like that, and you’ve got a real _studious_ look about you, I must say. They don’t do much hunting, though, or go rolling around on motorcycles, so I’d wager you’re an _ex-_ Man of Letters. I’d say you got sick of the passive knowledge hoarding and wanted to get your hands dirty. Why is that, Cas?”

By the near-hateful look in Castiel’s eyes, Dean can tell he’s hit the nail on the head.

“Why are you being antagonistic?” Castiel hisses.

“I don’t trust hunters. Or Men of Letters.”

“And why’s that?”

“First you tell me why you left and started hunting.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Tit for tat, Cas, I want some juicy gossip.”

Castiel grits his teeth. “Crowley killed my sister, and the Men of Letters did nothing to stop it.”

Well, now Dean feels like a real asshole. “What happened?”

“They got her killed, and they almost got me killed. She’s dead, and now Crowley is dead too. That’s the story. Do you want this, or not?” Castiel grumbles, pushing the canister closer.

Dean’s been carefully ignoring that canister. He knows what’s inside, what else would have brought Castiel here? But he doesn’t know if he’s ready for everything to change. Again. He’s been living on scraps for decades, that’s his life now.

“Surprised you brought it to me.”

“It wanted me to.”

“You didn’t have to listen to it. Men of Letters would love to have that. Hell, some would pay good money for it. Real good money.”

“Selling it won’t bring Hannah back.”

Ah, perhaps Castiel came looking to bargain. “You want me to bring her back?”

“No. She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t want that.”

“But _you_ want that.”

“What I want is irrelevant.”

“So… you’re just bringing this to me out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“I had a mission,” Castiel says, helping himself to the bottle of bourbon Pamela left for Dean. He fills his glass to the brim and pushes the bottle back over toward Dean. Dick. “For six years, I had a mission. Track down Crowley, and kill him. I no longer had the full resources of the Men of Letters behind me, but I was determined.”

Dean smirks. “And a knife I’m guessing you stole.”

Castiel shrugs. “Among other things. They owed me.”

“Right. So, you had a mission.”

“I had a mission. A week ago, that mission ended, and my prize? Some dead demon vessels, a crystal the size of a watermelon, Samuel Colt’s gun, and this,” Castiel says glumly, gesturing to the canister. Dean snorts. Of course Crowley had the Colt lying around, the prick. God knows how many hunters that piece of shit murdered to get it. “So,” Castiel continues, “when I saw what was inside… I obeyed its whims, because I needed a new mission.”

“And you brought it all the way here to me. In a box I can’t touch.”

Castiel gets a startled look on his face that Dean can’t help but find a little cute. “My apologies,” he says, reaching for the canister. Dean’s hand shoots out pretty much on its own, grabbing Castiel’s wrist.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t? Why not? Why wouldn’t you want this? I may not know you, but I know that grace is—”

“You don’t know _what_ grace is, human,” Dean hisses, still holding onto Castiel’s wrist. It’s only when Castiel’s face twists in pain that Dean realizes he’s holding on too tight. “Sorry,” he sighs, letting go.

“Help me understand, then.”

“Why?”

“Because, Dean, I have nowhere else to be.”

That’s as good a reason as any, Dean supposes. “Look, it’s… I was someone else, and then Crowley happened, and now I’m this. And I wouldn’t say I’m happy, but… this is me now. If I fix my… issue… the others, they’ll expect things of me. They leave me be, because I’m… injured. I’m incomplete. But with that… I just don’t know if I can be what I was, what they’d expect. That make sense?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. I know with certainty that my… _brethren_ will be expecting me to return once they get word of me settling my ‘vendetta’.” Castiel raises his hands to make air quotes, and it’s kind of endearing. “But I’m not going to go back. I… I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Well if you’re not going to hunt, I suggest giving your toys to someone that will use them. Lotta demons out there need killing.”

“But these… they _kill the vessel_ ,” Castiel says sadly. “Vessels deserve to live,” he adds, eyes roaming over Dean’s body.

“Stop that,” Dean snaps. “This isn’t a _vessel_ , I made this with my own pathetic scraps of grace.”

Castiel frowns. “My apologies, I just assumed…”

“Yeah, well most of my kind is too lazy to put the work in, but I had plenty of time on my hands.”

“I appreciate that. I mean… I appreciate that you were willing to put that effort forth, and spare your vessel.”

“You know it’s not like with demons, right? We ask permission, and if they know how, we can be ejected. We don’t just jump unwilling—” Dean looks at Castiel, _really_ looks. “ _You_ were a vessel.”

Castiel looks down at his mostly empty glass. Oh, Jesus.

“You were _Crowley’s_ vessel. You were Crowley’s vessel when your sister died.”

“Not… not when she died. He delivered the mortal wound, but she started to exorcise him, and he left my body, fled before she could finish. I was me by the time she died, when she bled out in my arms.”

“That’s… rough, Cas. I’m sorry. I know losing a sibling is…”

“Have you ever lost a sibling, Dean? Do angels _have_ siblings?”

They’ve been dancing around the word, but now that Castiel has said it, Dean knows where this is going to end. This ends with him absorbing that damn grace.

“In a way, you could say we’re all brothers and sisters. But we’re more like a product made in huge batches. But… there is an angel I was close to, one I would call my brother. He’s not dead, but I haven’t seen Sam in decades.”

Castiel smiles. “Sam? There’s an angel named Sam?”

“Shamsiel. Used to call him _Sham_ as a nickname, but… he lost his taste for it when humans developed their many languages, and ‘sham’ became a word with a less than flattering association. I thought it was pretty funny, myself.”

“And what about you? You can’t tell me _Dean_ is an angelic name. Is that a nickname too?”

“Not at all. I just liked the name.”

“What was your old name?”

Dean shakes his head. “Ah, ah, ah, that’s pretty personal for a first date.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a date.”

“You’re the one that showed up flirting with me, Cas.”

“That was… I was trying to find an opening. For conversation.”

“And the opening you went for was my pants.”

Castiel scrubs a hand over his face. He’s annoyed, flustered maybe. “I thought perhaps flirtatious was the way to go, but it became obvious that it wasn’t going to work.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You’ve got a lot going for you there, with the leather jacket and the sex hair and the big blue bunny eyes.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Do rabbits have blue eyes?”

“A few. Let’s get out of here,” Dean says. He stands, slapping a few bills on the counter for the Wild Turkey and Pamela’s patience, and places his hand over his blade until it disappears.

Castiel looks startled but he nods, pocketing his own knife and getting up to follow Dean.

“Don’t forget my _grace,_ Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean barks, smirking to himself when Castiel scrambles to grab the canister off the bar.

  
  


*

  
  


It’s been a long day for Dean. Fighting demons with only five percent of his grace isn’t exactly easy, and Dean had found some two towns over in need of exorcising. That’s mostly what he does these days. Exorcises demons or disposing of other supernatural creatures if he’s in the mood, like a common hunter. He can’t fly, he shut out the voices of the other angels years ago, and he sleeps. Maybe it’s not the most dignified life for an angel, but Dean’s been pretty fine with it. Tonight was a bear though. He was fighting several demons, and if any of them had been equipped with the right weapons or spells he’d have been too dead to encounter Castiel at that bar.

He’d thought it seemed like the demons were being extra active the past few days, and now he knows why; their king is dead. He’d like to think that’s a good thing, but now there will be power struggles, demons stepping up to fill Crowley’s shoes. There’s no way of knowing if things will get better or worse on Earth with Crowley gone.

All the more reason for Dean to power up, he supposes.

He walks with Castiel for over fifteen minutes, until they reach an empty lot at the edge of town.

“You should wait here,” Dean says. “Don’t want to get knocked on your ass.”

“O-of course,” Castiel mutters. He fishes the canister out of his pocket and opens it to dump a small glass vial into his hand.

Dean’s entire _being_ sings at the sight of that vial, at the shining light inside.

He still remembers what it was like in the instant it was stolen from him. It was only luck that Crowley didn’t manage to get all of his grace, and without it Dean would have been defenseless… which was the whole point, Crowley wanting a weak angel to torture for information. But Dean got away, barely, and he assumed the rest of his grace was lost to him forever. But there it is, in the hand of a troubled man, being offered back to him with no strings attached.

Dean could spend another thousand years among humans and never quite understand them.

He takes the vial with trembling fingers, wondering if he’ll feel different after this. He certainly felt different when he _lost_ his grace.

He walks several yards away from Castiel, close to the middle of the run down lot. It’s a clear night, the moon is full, and there’s no one around but this strange hunter. This seems like a good moment.

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters.

He throws the vial onto the pavement and it shatters beautifully, the grace-light inside immediately expanding, twisting, stretching at the sudden freedom before it rockets into Dean’s open mouth. It feels like he’s taking in huge lungfuls of hot air, and then he’s glowing. He can see it through his fingertips, shining through his shirt, can see the way the lot around him is suddenly lit by more than just moonlight.

“SHUT YOUR EYES!” he shouts, and he sees Castiel shield his eyes with his arm just before he feels himself go supernova, and the world around him goes white.

  
  


*

  
  


He hears them. The voices of his brothers and sisters. His _batch_ as he told Castiel. They’ve felt his return to form, and they’re singing their joy. Shamsiel may be among them, but there are so many voices. He shuts them out again. He’s not ready. Maybe he’ll never be ready.

The decades he’s spent as Dean-the-Broken-Angel should be a blip compared to the rest of his existence, but in some ways they feel like the only ones he’s ever had. He feels more like “Dean” even with his grace coursing through his rendered body.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes open slowly. He’s on his back, lying on the sidewalk where Castiel was standing. He turns his head towards the spot he was standing when his grace was freed, snorting at the smoke he can see rising from what he assumes is a small crater.

When he looks back at Castiel, he freezes. Wow. _Wow._ It’s been so long since he could see… _really_ see human souls, he forgot how beautiful they could be. And this soul... it’s bright with reverence and curiosity. He can see the cracks where numerous tragedies have left their mark on Castiel’s spirit, but those scars make the soul no less lovely.

“You have… a _gorgeous_ soul,” Dean mumbles, throat bone-dry.

“Thank you?” Castiel says slowly. He stands and helps Dean to his feet. “How do you feel?”

“Like someone stuffed my body in a commercial dryer and let it run for a few hours,” Dean groans.

“Perhaps you should have taken it in smaller doses,” Castiel says, glancing over to what Dean can see is definitely a small, smoking crater.

“Yeah, well… hindsight’s twenty-twenty. Let’s get out of here.” Dean puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and lets his wings stretch out for the first time in over thirty years.

  
  


*

  
  


“Is this a motel room?” is the first thing out of Castiel’s mouth when they land. Nothing about Dean’s amazing powers of teleportation, which… some awe _would_ be nice.

“Yeah, this is where I’ve been holed up the past few months.”

There are beer cans and pizza boxes on the floor, dozens of books all over the table, and a bulletin board covered in photos of possible demon vessels.

“For someone that doesn’t trust hunters,” Castiel says, looking at the board, “you sure live like one.” He turns back to say more, and then his jaw drops open.

“What?” Dean snaps. He feels weirdly exposed.

“You have… wings.”

Dean turns, smiling when he sees the shadows of his wings on the wall. “Sure do. Wow, they look great. They looked like shit when Crowley took my grace, I hated the sight of them.”

Castiel reaches behind Dean, presumably feeling around for his wings. He looks disappointed when he doesn’t make contact.

“What, you wanna touch them?”

“Forgive my curiosity, most of the lore the Men of Letters have on angels is… largely theoretical.”

“Sure, what the hell,” Dean says. He pulls his suit jacket and shirt off, tossing them on the bed. Castiel’s eyes rake over Dean’s chest, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. Yeah, he knows he looks good. “Cover your eyes in case I fuck this up, so I don’t burn your eyes out.”

Castiel’s eyes widen before he’s covering them with both hands like a child watching a scary movie. There’s a trick to this, pulling one’s wings to the corporeal realm without the eyeball-popping light coming with, and Dean’s a little rusty. He concentrates, feeling his back and shoulders sag slightly under new weight. His wings were in shreds last time he saw them, but the surge of grace has them looking even better than they did the last time they were whole. He stretches one silvery wing out until it bumps Castiel on the shoulder.

“Alright, go nuts,” Dean says.

Castiel slowly moves his fingers away from his face, then opens his eyes, and Dean smiles at the pure wonder in them.

“Wow,” Castiel whispers, “they’re bigger than I thought… they’re bigger than _me._ And the color is…” he reaches a hand out tentatively. “May I?”

Dean nods. “Just don’t go tugging any feathers out,” he jokes. At full strength, it would take a lot more than a human’s tugging to pull one of his feathers loose. Castiel’s fingers trace along the edge of Dean’s left wing, giving Dean sensations in nerves he’d forgotten he had. His fingers are strong, reverent, as they move along the primary feathers. Fuck, Dean missed his fucking wings. He missed having someone _touch_ his wings. It’s been a long time for that.

“They feel… real,” Castiel mutters, walking closer. His fingers move against the grain, moving up until they reach the softer down feathers closer to Dean’s back. “I suppose I didn’t expect them to _not_ be real,” he adds absently. He’s petting Dean like one might pet a cat, and it’s actually nice. Really nice. In fact, one might say the way Castiel’s thumbs are slowly massaging his wings feels _too_ nice.

“Cas,” Dean groans, leaning into the man’s space slightly.

Castiel jerks his hand away, staggering back a few steps. “Sorry, I-I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t exactly complaining, Cas. Thought you were a man in need of a mission.”

“And what is my mission now?”

Dean rolls his shoulders, arching his wings up as high as they’ll go in the motel room. “Pleasure an angel.”

Castiel takes another step back. Dean can see the hesitation as clearly as he can see Castiel’s desire, it’s written plainly on the fringes of his spirit. “Dean, I…”

“Make me feel good, Castiel.”

Castiel nods, though whether it’s to Dean or himself, Dean can’t tell. Then he’s rushing forward, throwing his arms around Dean’s neck and kissing him hard on the lips.

Many of the other angels find this sort of thing distasteful, base, but Dean doesn’t. The way humans find love, solace, and pleasure in one another is often beautiful to him, and he’s done his fair share of partaking in carnal joys with both willing angels and eager humans. Very little of that, however, has occurred within the last thirty or so years. Dean is so, so ready to feel good. With the way Castiel’s hips are pressed against his, the way he’s leaving a triangle of kisses from Dean’s lips, to cheek, to neck, they’re off to a good start. Castiel’s hands smooth down Dean’s face to his neck, thumbs a pleasant pressure under Dean’s jaw. It’s awesome.

They stand there for a handful of minutes, trading kisses and the occasional soft bite. Eventually, Dean works Castiel’s leather jacket and shirt off so he can delight at the bare skin of their chests touching. Shoes get kicked off, belts unbuckled, pants unzipped, and eventually they tumble onto the squeaky mattress on the motel’s shabby bed frame.

Castiel, Dean realizes, has a number of scars on his body. Most of them are relatively new, probably from a man learning that hunting is nothing like hanging around a bunker with a bunch of tomes and scholars. Some are obviously from a blade, others must have been made from claws, and one definitely looks like a bullet wound. What ever Castiel has been up to since he left the Men of Letters, it’s been rough going.

“You should be more careful,” Dean says, kissing down Castiel’s chest, lips lingering on the heavy black ink over Castiel’s heart. It’s a pentagram surrounded by a circle of fire, an anti-possession symbol Dean’s seen on several hunters in his time.

“Why?”

“So that you don’t _die,_ foolish human,” Dean grumbles, working Castiel’s jeans off his body. “Or are you another idiot hunter with a death wish and reckless technique?”

“Hunting is not easy for those of us without wings,” Castiel says, glaring even as he kicks his jeans off the rest of the way.

“Well, you should still be more careful.”

“I’ve gotten better. I would even say I’m a skilled hunter.”

Dean pulls off Castiel’s socks, then removes his own pants and socks. “Would you?”

“Before you get cocky, I’d like to remind you that out of the two of us, _I’m_ the one who has slain the King of Hell.”

“ _Self-proclaimed_ King of Hell. Crowley was just a trumped up crossroads demon.”

“I still killed him. Did you?”

Asshole. “Do you know how many demons I’ve sent back to Hell, human? How many I’ve burned out of existence?” Dean pulls Castiel’s boxer briefs down, flinging them across the room. When he gets to his own underwear he just rips them off. Fuck it, he can fix them later. “I’ve _forgotten_ more demons than you’ll ever even encounter.”

“Is this some sort of angel penis measuring competition?” Castiel says, eyes looking restless as they dart to various spots on Dean’s body.

“Well let me see,” Dean says. He straddles Castiel’s hips and spits in his palm before reaching down to draw their cocks together. He grins. “Looks like we’re about the same size.”

Castiel shudders, hands gripping Dean’s thighs tight. “Great, then we can stop bickering.”

Dean strokes the both of them slowly, mesmerized by the sight of their skin touching. “Sure.”

“I thought I was supposed to be pleasuring an angel,” Castiel moans, “you’re doing all the work.”

“This is pleasuring me, Cas, don’t you worry.” Dean’s hand moves a little faster, wet with saliva and a bit of precome. “You’re completing your mission… just by shining the way you do.”

“Shining?” Castiel says, confused.

“Your _soul,_ Cas,” Dean says, rocking his hips into his hand, “it glows.”

“My soul? Mine?” Castiel sounds so surprised, which makes Dean a little sad.

“Yeah. It’s real pretty, Cas.”

Castiel huffs out some emotional little sigh and pulls Dean down into a kiss, licking into his mouth eagerly. Dean loses his hold of their dicks as his hand flails out for balance, and then he’s putting everything he has into the kiss, groaning at the feel of Castiel’s tongue in his mouth. One of Castiel’s hands snakes behind Dean’s back, gripping the base of his left wing, massaging the muscle as they kiss. Shit, shit, _shit._ Humans are so wonderfully physical. Dean works his hand back between them, resuming his strokes, shivering at the sparks of adrenaline running through him. Castiel is planting biting kisses down the side of Dean’s neck, muttering something.

“Gotta speak up, Cas,” Dean says, hand working faster, gripping them a little tighter.

“Tell me your name,” Castiel says, almost whining.

Dean sighs. Fine. Castiel gave him back his grace, he can give this. “Barachiel,” he whispers, lips against Castiel’s ear.

“Barachiel,” Castiel moans, sounding contemplative. “Dean suits you.”

“I _feel_ like a Dean,” Dean says, grinning.

“You talk like a Dean.”

“Do I touch like a Dean, Cas?” Dean’s panting, body poised for an orgasm.

Castiel’s eyes are squeezed shut, thighs tense. “Yes, Dean, _yes._ ”

“Want to know what Barachiel touches like?”

Castiel stills slightly, tilting his head to look Dean in the eyes. “Alright.”

Dean smirks. “Alright.”

He pushes. Not with his hand, not with his body, or even his mind, but with his grace, lets a slow, careful tendril move from his chest to Castiel’s. It’s a small amount of grace, not enough to hurt a human’s eyes, and Castiel watches, spellbound. Then the grace pushes further, to that beautiful ball of light in Castiel’s chest, and he shouts, pulling Dean closer, hips rocking absently.

It feels good on Dean’s end, too. Castiel is so warm and bright, and he feels incredible. Dean’s never touched a human soul with his grace like this. With sexual intent. He wants to sink deeper inside that cozy ball of light, but he just _met_ this guy. Instead he maintains the connection they have now, willing his arm to move again, wings tense, body so, so close. When Castiel lets out a small cry and comes, it’s all Dean needs. He gives in to the orgasm looming over him, coming onto his hand, onto Castiel, letting his grace work just a tiny bit deeper into Castiel’s soul.

Time gets a little fuzzy after that.

At some point Dean retracts his grace, cleans his hand off, shifts his wings out of the earthly dimension so he can lie on his back, and tangles the fingers of his clean hand with Castiel’s. He doesn’t remember doing any of it though. One minute he’s coming, the next he’s lying next to Castiel, who’s staring up at the ceiling with a gobsmacked look on his face.

“Hi,” Dean says, squeezing Castiel’s hand gently. Castiel jerks slightly, startled, like he forgot Dean was there at all. Dean’s not sure whether to be flattered or insulted by that.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, voice a bit weak.

“You okay?”

“I feel as though I could sleep for about a month. That was… I felt like someone stuffed my body full of firecrackers and set them all off at once.”

Well, that’s a disturbing mental image. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s an _incredible_ thing, Dean. That was… I needed that. _Thank you_.”

It’s probably the first time Dean’s ever been thanked for sex, and he’s pretty damn old. “You’re… welcome?”

Castiel looks at Dean, smiling. He looks younger than he did at the bar. “I feel so worn out. But good. That… it was unusual, but it was good. That piece of you I felt, that shining, glowing piece of you… it was beautiful, Barachiel. Dean. God, I’m so tired. I feel like I haven’t slept in years.”

“You should sleep, Cas.”

Castiel frowns. “If I do… will you still be here when I wake up?”

Dean nods. “I promise, Cas. Just get some rest. You need it.”

With his grace back, and feeling even a little more galvanized after that contact with Castiel’s soul, Dean has no real reason to sleep. Still, he helps Castiel under the bedspread, smiling when Castiel pushes at him until he’s lying on his side, then curls up behind him. This is… cool. Dean can be the little spoon.

  
  


*

  
  


Dean doesn’t quite manage to fall asleep, but he lets himself idle so completely he might as well be asleep. After maybe four hours of rest he feels Castiel stir behind him.

“Barachiel,” Castiel mutters, voice heavy with sleep, “isn’t that the name of an archangel?”

“Depends on which branch of religion you subscribe to, I guess. I hear to some, I’m the patron saint of marriage, parenthood, and sweet rosey blessings.”

“So… are you?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. I don’t exactly preside over happy, God-fearing families, but… the archangel part is true. Makes what happened to me even more embarrassing, really. Getting trapped by a common demon.”

“So I am currently... _cuddling_ with an archangel.”

“Bet no one at your Scholarly Bunker of Knowledge can claim they’ve done _that_.”

“I am honored, Dean.”

“Don’t be _honored,_ Cas, that’ll just make this weird. And I don’t want this to be weird.”

“What is… this?”

“Post orgasmic bliss, Cas.”

“And after? After the... bliss? Do we go our separate ways? You back to Heaven, me back to the Men of Letters?”

Dean frowns. That’s not what he wants at all. “We can do whatever we want, Cas. What’s the point of free will otherwise?”

Castiel kisses the back of Dean’s neck, sighing contentedly. “That was the perfect answer.”

“How about we figure that all out after you get some more sleep?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, instead drifts quickly back into unconsciousness.

Dean smiles into the darkness. For the first time in a long time, he’s excited to see what tomorrow brings.

  
  


*~The End~*

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Please be sure to show [the artist](http://powerbottomsammywinchester.tumblr.com/post/141959521925/destiel-reverse-bang-art-2-fic-info-coming) some love, okay? Thank you for reading!


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